


3 A.M. STUCK on a HAUNTED Ferris wheel with my BEST FRIEND GONE SEXUAL GONE WRONG!!?! (Not Clickbait!)

by escspace



Category: Noblesse (Manhwa)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Modern Ragar AU, Romance, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22305436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escspace/pseuds/escspace
Summary: Ragar and Frankenstein spend the day together.
Relationships: Frankenstein (Noblesse)/Ragar Kertia
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20
Collections: Modern Mundanity





	3 A.M. STUCK on a HAUNTED Ferris wheel with my BEST FRIEND GONE SEXUAL GONE WRONG!!?! (Not Clickbait!)

**Author's Note:**

> Songs referenced:
> 
> Dream Perfect Regime. "EUNG FREESTYLE". https://youtu.be/QljRe99OMCU
> 
> Louis Armstrong. "La Vie en Rose". https://youtu.be/qlxRnlWu3Ls
> 
> Paul Anka. "Put Your Head On My Shoulder". https://youtu.be/kvazBqAlx58

“This is garbage.” Frankenstein sets his cup of iced coffee down.

“The reviews said this place was good,” Ragar says.

The windows are generous with warm sunlight, and the cheery, airy notes of bossa nova music drifts through the air, mingling with the soft clinks of porcelain and silverware and the hum of customer chatter. They are sitting comfortably in worn wicker chairs at a table by the plastic shrubbery lining the windows.

“Well the reviews are wrong.” Frankenstein decides to ignore his coffee and instead turns to the chicken sandwich hugged by powdery sourdough bread and nestled next to the colorful salad, poking it with his dull knife. A small tomato rolls to the edge of his plate. “At least they didn’t pour sugar into this thing.”

“You are always critical.”

“I can make better food at home.” Nonetheless, he slices his sandwich in half and carefully picks one part up, flicking crumbs onto his plate with his fingers.

Ragar sighs a little. “You are better than most people at most things, Frankenstein. The point of this is not competition.” He sips orange juice through an environmentally conscious paper straw. “One would expect that you would know this already, seeing as you are so very competent in all things.”

Frankenstein’s face briefly creases, his mouth upturned in mild though friendly enough offense. He takes a bite of sandwich, then touches the linen napkin to his mouth. “Fine, the food isn’t bad; it’s just the coffee.” Amused and challenging, he huffs softly and smirks up at Ragar. “Is that better?”

Ragar cuts into his slice of pink ham paired with crisp egg. “Yes,” he says firmly. Golden yolk bursts and sluggishly runs onto his plate as he punctures it.

Frankenstein scrapes his fork into the salad. “So do you have any other inspired ideas for our little ‘date?’”

Ragar considers carefully, squinting his memories of magazines, television shows, and movies into focus. He knows couples are supposed to go to many places and do many things that do not involve fighting or life or death or criminal organizations, and he searches through his mind for acceptable, romantic, popular, picturesque activities. He looks up at Frankenstein and nods.

* * *

The sounds of raucous laughter, whirring machines, and the impact of weighted balls and falling bowling pins blur into a cacophony of a casual, fun weekend. A pink neon sign reading “Rock-n-Bowl” in tall, whimsical script illuminates one of the walls parallel to the gutters.

Old borrowed bowling shoes that have seen many years of play and sweat snugly laced, Ragar leans down and inspects the various smooth, marbled bowling balls on the shelf. He picks one up, then puts it down. Then another and then another.

Frankenstein steps behind him. “Just pick one.” He has a deep maroon ball marked with a large white “8” in his hands and looks down to make a crinkled, disapproving face. “These shoes are dirty…”

Ragar looks at him, nods, then turns back to select a ball with the same number and color.

They make their way to lane 29, and the family of five in lane 28 takes vague notice of them. A little girl with a short bob of hair and in a crinkled pink dress smiles at Ragar as she swings her legs back and forth from her seat, too short to even touch the ground. Ragar subtly nods in return as he approaches the machine anchored between them to input the players’ names onto the bright screen above. There are not enough characters for “Frankenstein,” and so he settles with “Franken” instead.

Ragar goes first, and he delicately steps up onto the polished wooden floor. The oiled lanes shine under the bright white lights and reflect the shifting neon screens in the distance on the wall above the bowling pins. He turns the ball over, looking for the three holes he knows are meant for a player’s fingers, takes one step back, and pivots his foot. He pulls his arm behind him.

“Ragar, that’s not how—”

Ragar throws the ball overhand and it rockets powerfully through the air with missile accuracy towards the pins. With a gunshot bang, it crashes into them and then _through_ them and embeds itself into the floor like a meteorite searing through the atmosphere and burying itself into the earth.

_“Ragar!”_

The people in lane 28 jump and stare at the both of them. The little girl hops out of her seat and points at the stuck ball. “Wow! That lady’s so strong!” she exclaims to her family.

The screen above them blasts the word “STRIKE” in surreal animated letters.

* * *

They step out of the sliding doors of the colorful bowling alley.

“We can never show our faces here again,” Frankenstein flatly says as he looks straight ahead into the distance.

“I apologize for my mistake.” Ragar tugs at his mask, a little embarrassed.

As if deflating under the weight of the world, Frankenstein sighs. “We’ll just—go for a walk.”

Ragar nods.

* * *

They eventually make their way to a bustling commercial plaza. High on buildings loom bright scrolling signs presenting, embellishing, marketing the latest in entertainment, beauty, and tech in an instance of the ever changing nature of humanity. The signs offer ever new and ever novel consumable delights that shift with the seasons. Some people gaze at them momentarily before continuing on in their personal adventures. Gilded, polished, tourist catching stores line the streets waiting with open doors and “Open” signs for customers with lined pockets. High-rise buildings emerge from streets of people like cliffsides from the sea, patterned with polygonal windows.

As they walk, only two specks amidst the many other people, a window display catches Ragar’s eye. He stands still and gazes up at the white, faceless mannequin sporting a classy ensemble of a double-breasted dark navy jacket with white stripes, a pale yellow button-up shirt, and dark trousers. The jacket reminds him of Frankenstein.

“Shall we go in?” Frankenstein asks from behind him.

Ragar nods and they step beyond the glass exterior and into the golden lights of the Prada store. He leisurely runs his fingers over the fabric of a carefully arranged rack of shirts as he walks over to the window display to stare for a little longer. He only stops, startled, when he notices the price of the single jacket: 2.6 million Korean won.

Frankenstein quietly approaches. “Is that what you want?”

Before Ragar can tell him that it is astronomically expensive, Frankenstein has already caught the eye of an employee and has told her that he wants the entire ensemble gift-wrapped. He hardly pays attention to the price as he pays and then hands the bag of new clothes to Ragar.

“You did not have to do that. This is...very expensive,” Ragar says as they walk out of the store.

“Do you not like it?”

“I like it.”

“Then there is no problem.” Frankenstein ends the discussion there, briskly walking down the street.

Ragar keeps pace with him as they continue their quiet, humdrum adventure.

* * *

The white, vintage styled facade of the building is cutely accented by blue and pink lights while silently singing mascots dance on the LED sign by the entrance of the karaoke bar.

The young woman at the desk smiles a plastic smile and hands them the keys to their private room attached to a plastic tag marked with a bold “17”, and they are led down the dimly and warmly lit hallway, the lights and rows of identical white doors almost psychedelic.

The room is cozy with worn, gray sofas against three of the walls. In the center is a low glass table on which is a laminated menu, a pamphlet of alcoholic drinks, and a couple thick books of music, though there is also the option to play one’s own music over bluetooth.

They order a selection of _anju_ —foods to go with their selection of drinks—fried chicken, blood sausage, spicy rice cakes, and dried fruits—mango, strawberries, lemons. When the door closes and they are alone in the room to wait for their food and refreshments, Ragar starts the musical affair by selecting a song for himself.

The heavy, industrial beat of Dream Perfect Regime’s “EUNG FREESTYLE” booms from the speakers and bangs into the walls. A moment later, it picks up and hits deeper and louder. Ragar, gracefully holding the mic up to his face, says the words with quick precision, his rapping falling perfectly on beat. The words do not flow from him as forcefully as from the original artists, but he knows them well, front to back.

_“Rappers these days soundin’ extra extra extra lame… Put you in your place, call that real estate… Reppin’ South Korea, that’s where we fuckin’ be… Fuck!”_

Ragar recites with a characteristic gentleness despite the aggression of the lyrics.

Frankenstein looks at him with a touch of quiet amazement.

_“I’ve been dreaming perfect. All my shit be fumin’.”_

Ragar leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. His eyes quickly glance over and catch Frankenstein’s before darting forward to the screen again.

_“Touring cities in the future. Call that Metro Boomin’. Y’all don’t see me losin’...”_

Frankenstein relaxes back in his seat and places an ankle across his knee, his lips quirked up in an entertained smirk. Subtly, he nods to the droning beat and listens to Ragar’s subdued voice that says words foreign to such old nobility.

_“Try to follow me, too fast for you to follow...”_

Ragar shyly clears his throat at the thump of the final beat and sets the mic down on the table before retreating, crossing his legs, and folding his hands on top of them demurely.

“Didn’t know you were into that type of music.” Frankenstein raises his eyebrows at him. “Unexpected, but I’m not complaining.”

“It makes me feel vigorous,” Ragar states. “And fast.”

“Hm.” Frankenstein motions for him to pass the mic. After a moment, he selects something of another mood and another century completely: Louis Armstrong’s rendition of “La Vie En Rose.”

For a long moment, they simply sit and bask in the romantic tunes of a swooning trumpet playing bittersweet notes accompanied by the twinkling of piano. When Frankenstein starts to sing, his voice is smooth and reverberates deeply in his chest. Eyes half closed, the words come to him as clearly and easily as his vanity.

_“Hold me close and hold me fast...The magic spell you cast. This is la vie en rose…”_

Ragar watches with all of his attention. His chest flutters softly with Frankenstein’s velvet melody. He listens and he listens, drinking up the languid and rare romance that falls from Frankenstein’s lips.

_“And when you speak, angels sing from above. Everyday words seem to turn into love songs…”_

Frankenstein smiles, prideful, arrogant, bright.

_“Give your heart and soul to me...and life will always be...la vie en rose…”_

As he finishes and lowers the mic, Ragar applauds quietly and privately as is only appropriate.

Frankenstein smirks at him, both amused and yet utterly accepting of the gesture, like applause is the least he deserves after the performance.

Before they begin their next song, the door clicks open, and a young man wheels in a cart of food and whole bottles of drinks. He silently and swiftly arranges it all on their table before meekly nodding at them and disappearing again.

Frankenstein seizes the opportunity to pull a dark blue vial from a jacket pocket—his second favorite drug next to Dark Spear—and routinely, he pops off the cap of one of the bottles—gin, in this case—and puts in three eyedroppers worth of the potent, almost neon pink liquid, which quickly dissolves and turns into a pale blue upon contact with alcohol.

Ragar assesses him with familiar suspicion. “You carry that everywhere.”

Frankenstein tucks the vial back into his pocket, nodding. He picks up the gin and raises it at Ragar in ‘cheers.’ “I can’t have a proper drink without it,” he says, then takes a swig straight from the bottle. With some effort, he gulps down a generous amount before slamming the bottle back down onto the table with a dull thunk. He cringes slightly, scrunching his face. Frankenstein coughs into a fist. “This is a new recipe… It’s supposed to be more powerful than my last batch.”

“Then perhaps it would be wise to take things slower,” Ragar suggests.

Frankenstein smiles up at him. “I’m fine,” he says. His face quickly turns rosy. “Just pick a song.”

They take turns, and the minutes dissolve into hours, song after song. The plates of food are slowly picked clean, and Ragar, after having his fair share of the unadulterated drinks, eventually joins in on Frankenstein’s indulgence of strange drugs. They go through Al Bowlly, 2NE1, Flowsik, Tatsuro Yamashita, Ella Fitzgerald, NIKI, Elvis, Bach, Beethoven and before he knows it, Ragar is sitting on Frankenstein’s lap, arms draped loosely around his neck as Frankenstein leans back and tragically bellows the melancholic sounds of Paul Anka’s “Put Your Head On My Shoulder.” They are both flush with intoxication, though Frankenstein more so.

Ragar appropriately and sleepily rests his head against Frankenstein’s shoulder, and somewhere along the way, Frankenstein has slotted his hand in between Ragar’s thighs. He lazily feels at him there, and Ragar shifts and spreads his legs further apart for him.

_“Whisper in my ear, baby… Words I want to hear, baby…”_ Frankenstein murmurs. The mic has been dropped onto the sofa by now.

Ragar presses his body closer to him.

_“Put your head on my shoulder…”_

The door opens. “Oh—”

“Oh…”

“Um, my apologies…” the man says. His face is slightly pink. “It’s past closing time. We have to ask you to leave.”

“Yes, of course.” Frankenstein fumbles around, straightening his clothes as Ragar quickly gets off of him. Urgently, he fishes around in his pockets for his wallet, slams a generous wad of cash onto the table, and then they shuffle away in clumsy departure into the dark, early hours of the morning.

* * *

It is 2:47 a.m. when they walk past the multitudinous dark shapes of a theme park. Ragar, Prada shopping bag in hand, stops in his tracks and stares up at the towering circle of the ferris wheel black against the deep, inky shade of night sky.

Frankenstein looks up as well. “Do you want to go on that?”

“The park is closed.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“...I would like to go on that.”

They easily hop past the fencing and then ascend to the top of the ferris wheel. The metal passenger car rocks slightly as they both balance on it. Frankenstein reaches down from above and hooks his fingers through the pattern of metal lacing on the doors. With a firm, uncoordinated yank, the door is ripped from its hinges.

“Oh… That’s unfortunate…” He simply drops the door, and it crashes harshly onto the ground almost 200 meters below.

They both slip inside. The car shudders as they throw themselves into opposite seats. For a while, they only gaze out the window in silence at the rest of the sleepy, quiet city. A few moving lights in the distance signify cars still out at this ungodly hour, as there will always be someone awake at any moment, doing whatever it is they do in their own lives, far, far away.

Frankenstein sighs as a cool breeze drifts like a ghost through the car. It is crisp against his buzzing-warm face, and he closes his eyes, resting his chin on his arm in the window. “Are you having fun?” he asks, his words slightly slurred.

“I am having fun.”

“Good.” The car squeaks on its hinges. “You deserve it...my friend...my friend...my…”

Ragar is over him, straddling him, pressed to him. Frankenstein turns, dimly aware of their closeness, and then there are lips and tongue against his own. The thin fabric of Ragar’s mask grows damp between them.

He sighs. They sigh.

Frankenstein’s jacket is parted and the top of his shirt is undone—hands on each other, moving in the dark.

“Ngh…” Frankenstein’s face crinkles. He turns his head away and suddenly shoves Ragar back by the shoulder. His other hand covers his mouth, and for a lightning second, black and purple spark up his arms and face, disappearing just as quickly. Frankenstein throws his head out of the window. He wretches inelegantly and shudders as he brings up the contents of his stomach, all that was eaten earlier.

“Do I disgust you that much?” Ragar asks quietly as he reaches forward to hold his hair back for him.

“Oh, shut up.” Frankenstein coughs. A cold sweat forms on his forehead and neck. He sighs as he flops back into his seat, reaching in his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe his mouth and bitter grimace.

Ragar steps back. “You’ve poisoned yourself.”

Frankenstein waves his hand dismissively, cloth still tightly covering his lips. Suddenly, his face is out the window again. After an episode, he spits and shakily sits back down inside, Ragar gently guiding him.

“We should go home,” Ragar says.

Frankenstein sleepily huffs and nods. Then, he stands and, apparently forgetting that they are high above the ground, steps out of the hole where the door should be. Ragar hears him hit the floor with an awkward thud, likely fracturing a few bones from not landing properly, but they will heal within the minute. Ragar shortly jumps out after him.

* * *

The house is dark and quiet when Ragar opens the door, Frankenstein leaning against his shoulder. They shuffle and stumble inside.

Frankenstein lifts his head, and in the dark sits Raizel, whose red eyes peer at them with a soft glow.

Raizel places his book down on the table and approaches.

“Master...you’re...home already?” Frankenstein squints at him.

“It is nearly four in the morning, Frankenstein.” Frankenstein smells of floral soap, alcohol, and bile. Raizel reaches up to tuck a lock of golden hair behind his ear. He looks at Ragar.

“He has generously poisoned himself...as usual.”

Raizel smiles fondly, exasperated, and sighs. He touches Frankenstein’s pale, damp face with insurmountable tenderness. “Let us go to bed,” he whispers.

Ragar nods, but Frankenstein is already half asleep. 

They both gently guide him to his room and lay him down on his bed.

The next day, the ferris wheel is closed for repairs and cleaning.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember to like, comment, subscribe, ring the bell, call your parents, cast your vote, send smoke signals, contact aliens, etc.


End file.
